


Gone, but Not Forgotten

by Shaderose



Series: Shaderose's Parkner Tumblr Prompts [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Depressed Peter Parker, Five Stages of Grief, Grief/Mourning, Harley Keener is a Good Bro, Harleys there to help tho, Hurt Peter Parker, I'm Bad At Summaries, I'm Bad At Tagging, Jealousy, M/M, Maybe - Freeform, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Peter Goes Through it, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Sad Peter Parker, Tony Stark Acting as Harley Keener's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Well more like seven
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-11-26 03:37:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20923538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shaderose/pseuds/Shaderose
Summary: After returning from the Snap and the loss of both his mentor/father figure and his Aunt May, Peter struggles through his feelings of grief, loss and envy over the boy he knows was his replacement.Aka Peter goes through the five stages of grief, and Harley tries to help--Prompts are listed at the beginning of each chapter.--Canceled, never gonna be completed, sorry!





	1. Shock

**Author's Note:**

> Does this count as whump? Probably not  
But happy Whumptober anyways!! Lol
> 
> This is a completely self indulgent fic of a bunch of ideas ive had for a while mixed together into one big mess. I love the whole "Peter feeling forgotten about/replaced after coming back from the snap" trope, and I've always wanted to write a fic about the stages of grief, so I put the two in a mixing bowl and this is the result!
> 
> This may end up getting dark? Im not too sure yet, but if it does ill put trigger warnings in front of the chapters and potentially up the rating to Mature. I haven't written the other chapters yet though (I have ideas for all of them, but haven't gotten around to writing them yet), so we'll see when we get there! Lol
> 
> I hope you enjoy!!
> 
> EDIT: Harley is aged down a bit in this fic, so he isn't 5 years older than Peter. Harley is 18, while Peter is 16. Sorry if that age gap still bothers some people, I just felt it was realistic to have some type of gap between them after the five years, but I didn't want it to be a huge gap, like Harley being 22 or something. Hope you can still enjoy :))

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shock: Initial paralysis at hearing the bad news.
> 
> Prompts for this chapter:
> 
> 14- "Look, I know we dont know each other all that well, but I'm still worried about you. No one deserves to be alone."
> 
> 25- "Please talk to me about it."

Peter cradles a mug close to his chest, shifting in his plush armchair, curled into a ball as he stares into the crackling fire aimlessly, blankly.

He should feel the heat, he thinks as the fire cracks, sizzles and roars. Should feel the flames licking near his skin from how close he's sitting to the fireplace. But he doesn't. He can't. All he can feel is the cold, freezing cold clutches of his reality, burying his body with what feels like a mountain of heavy, wet snow similar to that that covers the ground during the harsh New York winters. Or, at least, similar to what they _used _to be. Could the weather have changed too? Had it grown warmer, brighter, sunnier without half of the universe around? Without the added pollution, the garbage dumps, the extra plastic use? Had the world grown better, faster, stronger, healthier without them? Without _him_? It wouldn't surprise him. It wouldn't surprise him at all. Everything else had changed, why not the weather, the _entire world_ too?

He lets out a puff of air silently, feeling the lukewarm gas brush past his tongue, his teeth, his lips, feeling his lung deflate slow, slow, slowly until there's a faint ache, and for a second, he wonders. Wonders what would happen if he didn't give in to the urge. Wonders if his lungs would burn like a forest in a wildfire, like the fire burning in front of his eyes, wonders if the ache would continue, continue, continue... or would it eventually stop? Would his heart keep beating, beating, beating... Or would it eventually stop? Would anyone even notice if it did? Would anyone even care?-

He inhales slowly, breaching the dark, churning water that threatened to overtake him, before turning his head towards the muffled sound of hushed conversation coming from the kitchen. He sees two figures sat at the large rectangular table, side by side, and he feels the breath he just got back get knocked right out of him again. It always does when he sees the little girl. A little girl with straight long hair and facial features just like her mothers (aside from the color of her hair) and big, round brown eyes the same color, the same shape, the same _raw emotion_ held inside as her father. Her now _dead_ father.

It has been a week (or, around a week Peter thinks, but it feels like it's been months) since... Everything. Since feeling himself being put back together atom to atom, piece to piece, dust to dust. Since waking up on a dirty orange planet, to Doctor Strange yelling and opening portals for them to go through. Since he fought in the biggest battle of his life, with every superhero he's ever known and looked up to, and some he's never even seen before. Since he had to dodge, weave, and run for his life as blasts got send down from the sky, exploding everything around him, as thousands of aliens chased after him to try and kill him, as he clutched the metal glove reaking of death and destruction and _dust_. Since he got saved by Captain Marvel (_Carol,_ he had figured out after). Since he felt his Spidey sense go crazy, crazy, crazy, only for him to turn around and see Thanos hold the gauntlet, see him snap again only for nothing to happen, see Mr. Stark, no, see _Tony_ holding the stones, see him burning, charring, his skin melting and mixing with the metal of his suit, see him spit out something before his hand raises, fingers rubbing...

Its been a week since he saw Tony _die._ Its been a week since his entire life was shattered, with a simple snap of the fingers.

It wasn't just Tony either. Peter _maybe_ would have been able to function if it was just Tony. Maybe he would have been able to _survive_ if it had just been him.

But, when Peter had returned back to the Stark cabin (they had a _cabin_ now, not a tower, not a compound, not a giant ass building somewhere, a _cabin_ in the middle of _nowhere_), expecting his Aunt May to be running up to him, hugging him, kissing him, something, _anything_ to make him feel better, he had gotten nothing. Nobody. Everyone else of the faded, the dusted, had had _someone_ to come home to at the end of the day, someone to meet them as they returned from the dead. Peter had nobody. He had gotten a quiet whisper from someone (he didn't know who it was then, he definitely doesn't know now), telling him to go clean up inside while they figured everything out.

Peter had been a wreck the entire time, crying, jittery and anxious, wondering why his aunt wasn't there, wondering if she had been snapped or not, wondering if she had moved on without him, like Tony clearly had, like _everyone_ clearly had. He would've prefered any of those options over the truth. After he had taken a shower, cleaned up, put on a pair of clothes that were a teenage boys, but _definitely_ not his (which he hadn't even questioned at the time), he went back downstairs only to find the remaining Avengers staring at him with crestfallen, sympathetic expression, with saddened eyes and Peter's stomach had dropped. Happy, who had stayed at the cabin during the battle, had been the one to tell him the news, taking him outside away from prying ears, sitting him down and trying his best to explain. But nothing could have explained it. Not really.

His aunt must have been driving when Thanos snapped. When she reappeared, she was in the middle of the road, and the driver behind her couldn't stip in time. She had come back to life, only to be run over, only to be _killed_ again instinatiously. Peter doesn't remember much about what happened after being told the news. He just remembers pain, searing, throbbing, crushing pain, and screaming. Crying. Agony. And then... Nothing.

It has been a week, and Peter still felt nothing. Saw nothing. Heard nothing. Not really. Everything went in one ear, and out the other, and everything he saw or did wasn't retained in his memory. He couldn't tell you anything he had done this week. Not one thing.

Except for what he was doing now. Sat on an arm chair, old and worn due to age and use, next to a fire, and staring into space. Staring at the two figures at the table, one short, small, young little girl, a true daughter of the person he had seen as a father, and one tall, lanky teenager, with shaggy, curly dirty blond hair and striking blue eyes. His replacement. The one who had filled his space in the five years he was gone, and had become the son Tony had always wanted. The son Peter had always wanted to be, but never got the chance to become.

Peter doesn't even know his name. Doesnt know where he was from, what his story is. But Peter loathed him already. Maybe loathed isn't the right word. More like, _envied._ He was _envious_ of the boy, as green with envy as Doctor Banner had become after being mixed with the Hulk, somehow. Or something. He still doesn't understand that. He doesn't understand anything.

The boy had survived the snap. The boy had lived with the Starks for the past _five years_ in his absense. He got to see Pepper and Tony get married, got to see them sell the tower, buy the cabin, got to move in with them when it was brand new, shiny, neat and tidy, when the walls were bare and the tables were clear. He got to see their family grow, as Pepper got pregnant with the little girl, whose name he also couldn't remember, got to watch her stomach grow and grow until the little human was born. Then he got to watch her grow too, got to play princess and house and all those other things little girls did, got to read her bedtime stories and cuddle with her on the couch in Saturday mornings to watch cartoons. He got to become her big brother, something Peter couldn't even have dreamt of.

But, you wanna know the thing Peter was most envious of him for, that Peter _hated him the most_ for? He got five extra years with _Tony._ He got to build things with him, be in the lab with him. He got to have Tony look over his shoulder every once in a while, sometimes with a recommendation, other times with a pat on the shoulder and a "good job, kid". He got to listen to ACDC on blast, screaming out the lyrics and laughing with each other until their faces were red and their stomachs ached. He got to watch the man who was touch adverse, only going as far as an arm around the shoulder or pats on the back, who hated being handed things, who couldn't handle coughs and sniffles much less full out sickness, become a father, become a _dad_. To a _child_. He got to watch as this same man grew used to hugs and cuddles, kisses and attention, coughs, sniffles, and probably much worse. He got to watch the man soften, soften into the man Peter saw briefly on the battlefield, who had hugged him tight, held him close, and kissed his head, something he used to never, ever, _ever_ do. This boy got to see it for years, got to experience hugs and forehead kisses like that for _years_, while Peter barely got to. He got to be the true son of Tony Stark, smack dab in the middle of every family photograph, every moment, while Peter's memory got left in the dust. Fuzzy, lost to time. Forgotten.

He tunes into the conversation suddenly, sucked back into reality, everything becoming sharp, crisp, like the resolution on a video went from 144p to 1080p, even though he knows that this isn't a video, knows that this isn't a movie or a show or anything like that. Knows that this is real life. _His _real life. His _reality._

"...on, here it comes, it's coming Morg, neooooow-" The boy starts making the stereotypical aeroplane noises, moving something in the young girls direction. A fork, if Peter could guess. All while the girl (Morg?) turns her head away forlornly, groaning lowly and quietly, complaining.

"Don't wanna."

The boy sighs lightly, sounding desperate. "I know, sweetheart, I know, but you gotta-"

"Don't wanna!" She interrupts, her voice a little louder, firmer. "I want daddy!"

Aaaand that's Peter's cue to zone back out. He can't handle (or feel) his own emotions right now, much less deal or listen to the grief of a child who just lost her father. Just like he had, when he was around her age. He's about to turn away to let the tide take him under once more, but before he can, the other boy huffs out a shaky breath, and looks away from the girl... Towards Peter. Their eyes connect, misty, teary cerulean blue against dull, dull brown, and an unreadable expression grows on the boys face. Peter abruptly jerks his head away, back towards the fire, his heart hammering in his chest. He feels a heat flare up inside of him for a second, before it fades just as fast as it comes. He doesn't know what emotion the other boy had felt looking towards him, but it had looked an awful lot like pity. Peter didn't need pity. Didn't want it. Didn't want anything, and anything he did want was dead, and never coming back.

So he stares, and stares, and stares into the fire for what feels like hours, his eyes burning as he refuses to blink for long periods of time, only blinking when his body screams at him to. Much like his breathing. Slow, sluggish, getting harder and harder as he slowly gets dragged further and further out to sea by the black sludge that's threatening to overcome his mind, his body, his soul and spirit and his eyes are burning, his lungs are aching, aching-

"Peter?"

Peter takes a slow, deep, shaky breath, blinks once, twice, the world coming back into focus, the tide receding as he sees the boy, the teenager, knelt down in front of him, eyes not longer misty, but soft instead, Peter would even dare to say kind, a small, hesitant smile on his face. His slim, chapped looking lips part, and he starts to speak again. "Its supper time. You should come eat." His voice is as soft as his eyes are, and he speaks the words slow, careful, just like he did when talking to the little girl. It makes the flame in Peter reappear. Peter isn't some little kid, he doesnt need to be treated like he's some fragile glass that'll shatter at any moment. But the flame disappears again, and leaves him back to feeling nothing.

He shakes his head, trying to curl up further into himself, trying to get away from the embodiment of everything he ever wanted, but never got to have, and he bangs his knees against the forgotten mug in his hands, causing some of the cold, cold liquid to fall into his lap, splattering against his jeans and leaving a spot of dark brown against his lighter jeans. Peter faintly hears the boy tsks before taking the mug out of his hands, but he doesn't focus on it, he can't. He instead stares wide eyed at the stain, the blue fabric seeped through with the darker brown liquid, just like the dust, the dirty, murky brown waters of Titan, of the destroyed compound, of the sprays of dirt from the explosions surrounding him on every side as he ran, ran, ran, like the dried blood that had flowed out of Tony's burnt up body, dripping, dripping, dripping out of him with no pulse, no force, just leasuring spilling all over the ground, all over his shiny red and _blue_ suit, all over-

Suddenly a wet cloth is being pressed against his thigh, dabbing softly at the stained fabric, and Peter flinches violently, jerking away from it, gasping loudly, eyes shooting up to see the boy blinking owlishly back at him, jaw slack slightly, the cloth still held in hand. "I'm- I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. I just-" He gestures to Peter's leg, "wanted to help."

Peter blinks at him for a few moments longer, looking him up and down and around the room, heart hammering in his chest as he slowly noticrz that he's _in the stark cabin, not at Titan, not at the Compound, not in front of Tony_. He takes a few deep breaths to get himself under control, before nodding once and uncurling himself from his tight ball, allowing the boy to go back to gently dabbing and wiping the stain with lukewarm water, until it's almost completely gone. They sit in a few tense, awkward moments of silence after he's done, the boy hovering beside him still, biting his bottom lip, looking very, very hesitant, uncertain, before he starts to speak again, voice hushed. "Look, Peter..." Another pause, this time thoughtful, as if the boy was thinking through his words. "I know we don't know each other all that well. Hell, you probably don't even know who I am," He laughs, but it's heavy, shaky, nervous, and it's over as soon as it began. "But... I'm still worried about you. I still _care _about you. So please," He places a hand on Peter's upper knee, and reconnect their eyes. "Please talk to me. Or- Or somebody, Pepper, Happy, Rhodey, _anybody._ Please. Nobody deserves to go through this alone."

Peter stares into his light, airy, warm but pleading, begging eyes, and he wonders. He wonders, if Peter hadn't been snapped, if Tony was still alive, if May was still alive, if _Peter_ was still alive... Maybe they could have been friends. Maybe even more than that. The boy seems kind, gentle and caring. Sweet and pretty. Perfect. It make sense, Peter realizes. It makes sense that Tony took him in, if he was always so great of a brother, helping his little sister through her grief even though hes obviously going through his own. If he was always such a great son, helping Pepper with the dishes, with cleaning and organizing throughout the days as she tries to arap her head around being a single mother, around being a widow. If he was always such a great person in general, helping out a borderline stranger to him, trying to get him to talk, to grieve, just because the boy saw that he was upset. That he wasn't okay. This boy, this teenager still knelt in front of him with big, earnest eyes and a soft, kind smile, this person is _perfect_. The perfect kid, the perfect brother... The perfect son. Peter was, _is_, nothing compared to him.

A knife pierces his heart, tears pool in his eyes, a bubbling bitterness rises in his throat, closing it, almost choking him, but he pushes it down, pushes it all down down down. He can't talk to anyone. Not to this boy, or the little girl, who had just lost their father. Not to Pepper, when she was already so kind as to take him in even though he's been nothing but a burden on her for the past week. Not to Happy, who's already struggling with his own feelings, and trying to help the little girl with hers. Not to Rhodey, who just lost someone he grew up with and who was like a brother to him. He couldn't put his meaningless issues, his pitiful feelings of rejecting and loss on to these people who deserve to cry and scream and _grieve_ so much more than he does.

So, Peter shakes his head, shrugs, and turns away from his problems, purposefully avoiding the disappointment he knows will be in those beautiful ocean eyes.

He hears a soft, defeated sigh, and hears the boy stand, his gentle footsteps (even his steps are gentle, careful) as he walks away, and Peter thinks that's the end of that. The boy will leave him alone now, leave him to stay, welt and decay away until there's nothing left of him, until he's breaking apart piece by piece, atom by atom, dust by dust. Just like last time. Just like he wants.

But the next thing he knows, a plate is being placed on the table next to him, full of steaming hot food, and a hand is placed on top of his. He hears the perfect, perfect boy murmur softly, "eat something, please." before leaving again to go God knows where. Peter doesn't care. Peter doesn't care about anything anymore. He definitely doesn't care about the endearing gesture from the boy who _replaced_ him. It doesn't mean anything.

He eats a bit of the food anyways, as much as his rolling stomach can muster, before putting the plate away and laying down on the chair, feeling exhausted. He hadn't even done anything, just ate. Just blinked. Just breathed. Just _survived._ He slowly closes his eyes, and lets the numbness overtake him once more, pulling him into a dark, restless slumber.


	2. Denial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Denial: Trying to avoid the inevitable.
> 
> Prompts used in this chapter:
> 
> 30\. "Are you wearing my shirt?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahaha I hate this chapter  
It was supposed to be mixed together with 'Anger', but then it got too long, so I wanted to post it as its own chapter. Because of that, there's only one prompt (I normally try to have two per chap) and it kinda feels forced. And the chapter itself is kinda all over the place because I didnt really know how to write denial all that well. Rip
> 
> But have it anyways! Lmao   
Next chapter should be better
> 
> Hope you enjoy anyways :))

Peter shuffles between the cases in his hand, humming under his breath. It's some random song he heard on the radio that he can't remember any of the words to, and normally that would bother him, but not today, not now. Because right now, he was cycling through the DVDs they kept in a cabinet by the t.v., picking out a few for their annual family movie night.

He's already picked out Mission Impossible and Ghostbusters (a classic, truly), and now he was trying to decide on a Disney movie to end the night on. He flushed out every option besides Frozen or Moana, and now he has one in each hand, staring between them and trying to think of the pros and cons of each.

As he's deciding, there's a shuffling sound from further into the apartment, and Peter is grinning before the door even opens. "Hey, May! Frozen or Moana?"

He turns towards the taller woman, who looks tired from her long shift at the hospital, but is still smiling wide, caramel eyes bright. "Oh, Moana, definitely. Better songs and better storyline."

Peter hums in consideration, staring back down at the two cases, before shrugging and putting Frozen back in the case. "Yeah, you're right."

He then santers over to his aunt, wrapping his arms around her midsection tightly, burying his face into her neck, the strong smell of flowery perfume overwhelming his senses in the best way possible, making him feel warm and safe. He feels her arms surround him, returning the embrace before she kisses his forehead gently, murmuring "Hey, baby." into his head.

"How was work?" He asks, reluctant to pull away, but with one tight, final squeeze, he does anyways, going back towards the movie pileup he created in his search.

He hears her shuffling around in the background as he begins to clean up his mess, probably putting her purse on the table and his keys beside it, as she usually does. "Good," she huffs out a long, drawn out sigh. "Long and tiring, but good. I'm ready to have some cuddle time with my bug."

Peter chuckles at that, feeling his heart swell at the nickname. May's called him that since he was a kid, called him her 'lightning bug', but it still never fails at making him feel warm and fuzzy, even after all these years.

He goes to respond, but before he gets the words out, there's a knock on the door. Peter's eyebrow scrunch together, even as his heart jumps in his chest in excitement.

"Huh, he's here early." May voices his thoughts almost exactly with a snort, and Peter breaks out of his confusion with a large grin, running back to the door. "I'll get started on the popcorn, then!" He hears May call after him in a teasing tone, and he rolls his eyes.

"Okay!" He opens the door, and immediately pulls the older man into a hug, causing him to huff out a laugh.

"You're in a cuddily mood today." He doesnt seem to be complaining, as he proceeds to return the hug in full with a small chuckle.

Peter just shrugs, hugging him tighter. "I missed you, Mr. Stark." He mumbles into the man's chest, the strong, familiar scent of cologne and motor oil filling his nose and making him smile subconciously. He doesn't know why there's this pang, this raw feeling in his chest, but hugging Tony seems to help, so he pushes the feeling away, snuggling in closer to the man.

Mr. Stark just sighs, sounding faux annoyed, and places his chin on the top of Peter's head, holding him as close as Peter wants him to, which is as close as physically possible. They stay like that for a few moments, just standing, huddled together, until May breaks it.

"Hey! I thought I got to have Peter cuddles first!" She huffs, and when Peter pulls back and looks over at her, she has her arms crossed, but a soft look in her eyes, a light smile on her face, and he knows she isnt truly angry.

He just grins, and unwraps an arm from around Mr. Stark, holding it out towards her and making grabby hands. May rolls his eyes with a soft giggle, and makes her way over to the two. Once she's in close enough proximity, Peter grabs her and pushes her into their cuddle pile, wrapping his free arm around her tightly and burying his face in between the two adults, his forehead pressed against both of their necks, close to their chests. He closes his eyes, and he knows, can feel that they're sharing a look over his head, but he doesn't care. He can't care, not right now.

Right now, he feels so safe, and warm, and so unbelievably loved. This, _this_ is what he wants forever. Him, and his family, together. Safe. Happy. _Alive._

But they are alive, Peter thinks, pressing in closer to them. They're here, now, and they're alive. That's all that matters.

Until the microwave starts beeping, signaling that the popcorn is ready. He doesn't pull away, he doesn't care, but the beeping doesn't stop and he realizes that it doesn't sound like the microwave, _but if it's not the microwave then, what is it-_

Peter blinks his eyes open halfway, slitted, groaning and glancing around his room to find the source of the incessant beeping. _Where is it... What is it?-_

Suddenly, it stops, and a robotic female voice fills the room, chirpy and bright. "Good afternoon, Mr. Parker. It is 12:02pm on Tuesday, May the 9th, 2023. The forecast for today is sun and clouds, with a 34% chance of rain, and it is currently 56° outside."

His brain is foggy, hazy as tries to wrap his head around FRIDAY's words. It's noon, on a Tuesday, and it's- it's 2023? What? That doesn't make sense, it's 2018-

Suddenly, everything comes back. The bus, the donut ship, the dirt and dust, fading away, coming back, the explosions, the hug, Mr. Stark- Mr. Stark dying-

But that didnt make sense either, he was right there, he was just here, he was just with Peter a few moments ago, how- how could he be-

And May, no, not May too, there's no way, they couldn't- they couldn't _both_ be _dead_, they couldn't be-

Peter feels the cold, cold, ice cold trickle of pure unadulterated fear and panic slip down his back, gripping at his bones, his muscles, his skin, his lungs, until he can't move, can't breath, can't do _anything_, _nothing_. He feels bile and bubbling, swirling, uncontrollable emotions clawing up his throat, scratching up his insides until he can practically taste blood, practically taste the grime, the sand, the dirt and dust. It doesn't make sense, they cant be dead, they can't be.

Peter had just held them, just held them close, so close, so so so close, they had family days and hung out all the time, and May held him every day, kissed his head and said I larb you everyday, _everyday_, and Mr. Stark let him hang out his lab and showed him his suits and went out on Patrol with him. And, and they watched movies together, sometimes only two of them, but usually all three of them, all of them, together, together and warm and _safe_. How could they be _gone_? How could they be _dead_? They couldn't be, they can't be, they can't be-

Peter gasps a large breath, forcing everything back down down down as he jerks upright, sitting up in the bed. He can faintly hear FRIDAY trying to regain his attention, but he doesn't focus on it. They can't be. It's that simple. They aren't dead, they're probably just- just out somewhere.

Yeah, yeah. They hung out sometimes when Peter wasn't around, got dinner or May would hang out with Pepper while Mr. Stark worked or, or something. They're probably just out to a cafe, getting a coffee because Mr. Stark can't function without his coffee, and May's probably getting a croissant and telling him how she's always wanted to go to France, and Mr. Stark is probably telling her that he'll take him there someday. Yeah, yeah that makes _sense_, that has to be true.

It has to be.

He blinks the blurriness out of his eyes, and wipes his cheeks of the wetness he didn't even notice had fallen in his sudden panic, now feeling a weird feeling of calm pass over him. Not numbness, not like before. But just... Calm. Quiet. They're only out for a while. They'll be back soon.

"-Arker? Mr. Parker? If you don't not respond, I will have to alert Mrs. Stark of your situation-"

"I'm fine, Fri. Don't worry." He responds almost monotone, voice light and airy, like a leaf being carried through the wind.

"Are you sure?" Even with the robotic hint, her voice still sounds suspicious, almost worried. "You seem to have experienced a panic-"

"I'm okay, really." He cuts her off again, scanning around his room and wincing. Dirty clothes scattered around the floor, a few cups and dishes on the side tables, a layer of dust (dust dust, not the same dust as titan, not the same dust as _him_-) on the wooden cabinets and the wardrobe. "I need to clean."

May was gonna kill him if she came back to see his room (the guest room, not his room) like this.

He stands, holding on to the headboard of the bed and blinking rapidly as the room spins and his vision gets spotty. Jeez, when's the last time he had a full meal? Mr. Starks always harping on him about his metabolism, how he needs to eat more than most. Maybe he should listen to that for once.

Afterwards. For now, he needs to clean.

He starts slow, wandering around the smaller room, picking up his dirty clothes off of the floor, bed, and chairs and placing them into one big pile in the corner of the room. A reminder to our them in the washer later. He picks a random shirt he saw on the drawer earlier, sniffs it, looks it over (_not too dirty, good enough_) and then pulls it on over his head, with a pair of shorts he found on the floor, before going back to cleaning. He picks up speed as he tidies up the tables, wipes them down, makes up the bed and picks up any other garbage around the room, putting it in the bin beside the bed.

He's broken into a sweat by the time he's done, but he doesn't mind, feeling a small swell of pride as he glances around the near perfect room. The only thing ruining it (and the only thing he had left to do) was the messy, unkempt pile in the corner of the room.

He takes a breather for a minute, before grabbing his school bag (why is his school bag here? Shouldn't it be at the apartment?) and filling it with the dirty clothes. He doesn't want to have to carry all of it in his arms, especially since he only has a faint idea of where the washer and dryer are in his place. He zips it up, swinging it around on to his back, running a hand through his curls that are now slightly damp with his sweat (_it must be warmer out today_), and cautiously, quietly opening his door.

He doesn't know why he feels like he shouldn't be doing this, like he can't be caught, but he tries to shake the feeling off as he creeps through the home, hear the soft creaking of old hardwood floors beneath his every step. The guest room hes staying in is on the first floor, so he doesn't have to go too far to get to where he thinks his destination is. He hears people awake, muttering to each other in another room, most likely the kitchen area, so he makes sure to avoid it, going the long way around through a hallway and the living room before making it to a small room just around the corner that leads to a doorway. A mudroom. That's usually where the laundry is kept, right? In the mudroom?

But as he walks in, he doesn't see any thing resembling a washer and dryer, just a small bench, a shoe rack and a closet. Would it be in there? Just about to open the huge closet doors to check, a voice rings out behind him.

"Peter?" He straightens, stiffens, turning his head and staring straight into those blue eyes from last night, but instead of open, honest and kind, today they're slimmed, narrow and calculating, accusing. "What're you doing?"

"Uhm, uh-" He stammers, unsure of why he's so nervous, why he feels like he just got caught with his hand stuck in the cookie jar. "I'm doing... Laundry?"

The boy (his name definitely starts with a H, maybe a Har- maybe Harry?) just blinks at him, and his tone is low, monotone. Unamused. Unimpressed. "Laundry, huh?"

Peter flinches at his harsh tone, such a contrast to the soft kindness he had shown last night. "Uhm, yeah?" He slides his backpack off, opens it in front of the boy to show all of his dirty clothes with a sheepish, embarrassed grin. "I- uh- I don't have any clean clothes left."

The boy blinks, and his eyes widen. "Oh." He says simply, seeming shocked, but it disappears as his face scunches up slightly, eyebrows closer together and lips drawn into a tight line. Uneasy. Nervous. "Ookay then. Wait," he blinks again, and his lips twitch. "Are you wearing my shirt?"

"Wha-" He looks down, seeing how the shirt he randomly put on went down past his hips, and fell off his collarbone a bit. He flushes, looking up with a shy smile. "I-I guess so. Sorry."

He just snorts, shaking his head. "Seems like you really are out of clothes. Well, if you're looking for the laundry, you're looking in the wrong place."

"Oh! Well, can you-" Just as he's about to ask for direction, a higher pitched squeal cuts through the air.

"Harley! Pancakes are ready!"

_Harley. _His name is _Harley_, not Harry, right, right. At least he was right about the 'H' thing.

Harley pivots slightly to call out over his shoulder, "Okay, be there soon, Monkey!" Before turning back to look at Peter, still looking kind of uneasy even with the small upturn to his lips, as he waves for him to follow, turning around and walking away.

Peter hastily zips his back back up and follows suit, taking the time as they're walking to glance the boy over. He's wearing an older looking black sweater, with stains all over and frayed ends at the cuffs, with a pair of gray sweatpants, and his hair is pushed back, but it isn't done with gel, just sort of lazily shoved out of the way. He looks like Mr. Stark did when he was going to work in the lab all day. That was probably what Harley _was _going to do, go work in the lab. He wonders if Mr. Stark told the boy that he could work in the lab, wonders if he's going to work with him, and feels a pang of bitterness. He hopes not. Lab times are Mr. Stark and _Peter's_ thing. Nobody else's.

Harley walks them past the living room again and into the kitchen, where Ms. Potts is stood at the stove fiddling with a sizzling pan, while the little girl sits at the table, stuffing her face with fluffy, syrup covered pancakes and seemingly making a mess while doing it.

Her little features brighten up as soon as Harley walks into the room, and she swallows before shouting out "Harls, Harls! They're shaped like dinosaurs!"

"Are they now?" He can see Harleys shoulders relax, and an easy, true smile grows on his face as he makes his way over to the girl, mumbling a good morning to Ms. Potts on the way, and looks down at the pancakes. "Oh wow, so they do look like dinos!"

"That one looks like a t-rex!"

"That it does, pumpkin, good job."

He pitches her cheek, and she swats him away with a giggle. Peter feels a crushing loneliness as he watches them, feeling like an intruder, like he doesn't belong. There's something so warm, bright and _familiar _between them that Peter has no part in, isn't apart of, doesn't belong in, doesn't _fit in _with, and for some reason it's weight is _crushing_. He quickly diverts his suddenly burning eyes, shifting his weight from foot to foot, feeling so utterly a_lone_ all of a sudden.

Harley must have noticed, or just saw him standing there awkwardly and took pity on him. Either way, he points to the other side of the kitchen, where there's a small nook, most likely another room, and says "Laundry's that way."

He nods once, mumbling out a thanks before starting towards the nook. About halfway there, he passes Ms. Potts, and as he does, a soft voice reaches his ears and stops him in his tracks.

"Hey, Pete, good morning." He turns his head to see Ms. Potts' small smile, her sad, almost haunted looking eyes, and his lips twitch downward. Why is she so sad? Mr. Stark's only gone out for a bit, he'll be back. Hell, they should be back soon (_it feels like they've been gone for so long_). Are they really that close? Peter doesn't remember them being that type of couple... Huh.

Well, whatever it is, maybe she just needs a pick me up. So, he blinks away his tears, smiles as wide as he can, and chirps out, "Good morning, Ms. Potts!" Before heading back towards where Harley pointed. He turns the corner, not noticing how the room behind him has gotten eerily silent, and grins slightly as he sees the washer dryer combo, one stacked on top of the other. Bingo!

He takes his backpack off again, opening it up and taking a few minutes to figure out the washing machine. Just as he's about to put his clothes in, heavy footsteps start coming towards him and Peter bites back a sigh, feeling a big wave of pure, bitter irritation flaring up. _What does Harley want now? _He already replaced him, already got his place in this family, what more could he want from Peter?

He hears the door of the small room shut behind him softly, before the boys voice rings out. "Hey, Pete?"

"Yeah?" He doesn't turn around, just continuing on with his duties, grabbing handfuls of clothes and shoving them into the open jaw of the machine, not giving the boy the time of day. He doesnt know why he's feeling so irritated, so envious all of a sudden, but he doesn't care, choosing to go with his gut.

Harley doesn't seem to notice, or doesnt seem to care, continuing anyways. "I know you've been... Gone for a while," Peter freezes, hands full of clothes, body tensing up immediately. Harley's voice is softer, pitying as he continues, "but Pepper and Tony got married. Pepper's last name is Stark now, Peter, and she would prefer if you to use that name instead of Ms. Potts from now on. Okay?"

Peter could barely hear him, it sounded like everything was underwater. Mumbled and jumbled, distorted. Gone for a while? Married?

No, that, that doesn't make sense, that doesn't-

"No, they aren't." His voice sounds hoarse, tight, like he's been screaming for hours even though he's barely said a word since waking up. "They're getting married in the fall."

"They did get married in the fall. Fall of 2019." His voice is higher now, worried, but Peter doesn't care. His mind is reeling, the same feelings as earlier coming back. Cold, cold, cold, the clawing, the taste of blood, the taste of _dust._

"No," He whispers, before clearing his throat, speaking louder. "No, that doesn't make sense, that doesn't-"

"Peter-"

He whips around, his hand balls into fists, and he feels himself start to shake. It's so cold. Why is it so cold? "It doesn't make sense! They said they were getting married in the fall, and- and _he_ said I could be a groomsmen, with- with Rhodey, and Happy, and May was going to be a bridesmaid, and I was going to help pick out of the rings, and the flowers, and some of the decor-"

"Pete-"

"And I'm still going to!" He feels the cold, cold, cold turning into harsh flames of a roaring fire, burning him from the inside out. "You know why? Because it hasn't happened yet! Because it's happening _in the fall_, and May and Mr. Stark are just _out_ right now, on a walk or-or getting coffee, and they're going to be back soon, so I have to get this shit done!" He waves back to the washer, shoving the rest of his clothes in and shutting the lid harshly, forming a small dent in the metal.

He starts it, before stalks over the boy, who eyes are wide with shock, maybe a little fear, but mostly with a concern that just adds fuel to Peter's fire, to Peter's rage. "_You_ are just a fucking _liar_!"

"Peter, please-"

But he doesn't wait around to hear the rest. He opens the door and storms out of the room, leaving a shell-shocked Harley behind him. He goes around the kitchen, ignoring Ms. Potts' (_it's Ms. Potts still, it has to be, it has to be_) call out to him as he races to his (_the guest room)_ and slams the door shut, the wood splintering at the ends.

As soon as he's in his room, the flame disappears and the frost returns, running through his veins until he's sure that he's going to have frostbite on his fingers and toes, until his muscles seize up, until his hearts and his lungs are too frozen to work properally, every beat and every breath a challenge.

He collapses onto his now spotless floor, his breathing reduced to sharp inhales and quick exhales and his body shuttering like an earthquake, hands grasping and pulling, tugging harshly at his hair, some pieces getting ripped out causing a sharp pain on his scalp that Peter doesn't notice. His mind is running too fast.

It doesn't make sense, that can't make sense, he wouldn't- he wouldn't have missed out on something as _important_ as that, Mr. Stark wouldn't have let him. He wouldn't have missed his _wedding_, his _marriage _to Ms. Potts, he wouldnt have missed that for the world. He wouldn't have missed her pregnancy, her birth, wouldn't have missed the chance to watch that little girl grow up, _he wouldn't do that! _How could he have missed out on _five years??_ It doesn't- it can't be true! It can't be!

(Deep, deep down, Peter knows it is true. He knows Harley was right, knows he _did_ miss five years, knows he _did _miss the wedding, that Ms. Potts truly was Mrs. Stark now, knows that he _did _miss the birth of their daughter, and all of the years of her life, knows that Mr. Stark and May are truly, truly gone, and never coming back. But his mind cant, and won't accept it.)

The room is suffocating all of the sudden, the windows closed off and the wooden walls closing in on him inch by inch, that the cieling is going to cave any moment and collapse on top of him, crushing him, filling him with dirt and dust, _so much dust, always dust, why is it always dust?-_, and- and-

He needs to get out of here.

He jerks up into a standing position and runs to the closed window, opening it quickly and jumping out, racing into the trees. He doesnt know where he's going, but he doesn't care. He just runs, runs, runs. Runs away from Pepper, and Harley, and the little girl. Runs away from the memories, the years lost, the _sorrow_ and _agony _of _grief. _Runs away from the truth. Runs away from it all.

He runs, searching for a world where everyone he loves is alive and well and _happy_.

Searching for a world that he knows no longer exists.


End file.
